


Tale of the Champion

by hongmunmu



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Fereldan Accents, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Negative development, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Red Hawke, Slow Burn, Trans Fenris, Unrequited Love, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: A set of conflicting twins who work to change an institution from the inside. A soldier, a storyteller, a fugitive, an activist, a thief, a pariah, a city of dogs and one woman who both brought them together and tore them apart.





	1. HAWKE

**Author's Note:**

> so this is gonna be my attempt at a multiple-POV longfic. i'm essentially just going to try and expand on canon; there will be eventual anders/fenris which will hopefully be healthy (might be a bit of a slow burn), some deliciously negative character development, unrequited love, camaraderie, the whole shebang. i say now, with no real plan as to how this fic is gonna progress. i'm a slow writer and a short writer, so this fic probably won't be as long as i want it to be, but we can try. y'know?

Marian leant her head back against the sandstone wall, twirling her dagger between her fingers. People-watching. It was a hazy afternoon, late Kirkwall sun bearing down on the docks. Gulls squawked overhead while the dockworkers bustled up and down the quay. An unusually busty elven woman strode past, a tight low-cut shirt exposing much of her ample cleavage, sea breeze blowing her dark hair back. A whore, no doubt.

“Her. She’s fit.”

“Too elfy for me.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Touché, Hawke.” The speaker was a fellow mercenary, Gustav. He ran a hand through his ratty blonde hair, eyes following the elven woman’s swaying hips as she disappeared down the street. He was a bit of a card, Hawke supposed, but most everyone in the Red Iron was; mercenaries were hardly known for their politeness and charming conversation.

“What’s that mean?” she asked, scoffing.

“What?”

“Too-shay.”

Gustav laughed, elbowing her. “You’re so Fereldan.”

“What’s it mean?” Her thick eyebrows drew down, scrunching up a few lines along her forehead. Had she asked, Gustav would’ve told her she was going to get a wrinkle if she kept frowning like that, but few people told Hawke what they were really thinking and kept their nose.

“Like, you win. I surrender.”

“Jus’ say that then. Fuckin’ Orlesian.”

“Not Orlesian anymore,” he reminded her, though it fell on deaf ears. To Hawke, everyone who wasn’t Fereldan was Orlesian, and everyone who wasn’t Orlesian was ‘other’. Everything was like that to her – binaries and ‘I don’t care’. Yes, no, and maybe. Black, white, and red. Just like her.

Work had been intense the past few months. Meeran had been working her to the bone; her year was almost up, Solace coming to a close – one year, the greasy old rat had told her, and she can quit. That had been last August, and she was itching to wear something that wasn’t this shoddy uniform. First thing she was going to do with her severance was get some new armour. If there was a severance package. She didn’t doubt Meeran would try and leech every last coin she earned, though he had promised she’d get a stipend at the end of her year.

It wasn’t terrible work, she supposed. It could be worse – things could always be worse, and if she couldn’t find better pay after a month or so, she’d probably come back to the ‘Iron. At least she’d get paid, after this one last month. Mercenary life had suited her just like the army had suited her; she was a quick blade, sharp in a fight, and boring work was her enemy.  She couldn’t say the same for Bethany and Carver, though – Bethany, however she refused to admit it, didn’t like killing for money, and Carver hated being told what to do. How he’d ever made it as a soldier was beyond her. He liked the camaraderie, though; they had that in common, she supposed.

It had taken a while to work past it, being a woman and all. Carver had been recovering from his head wound the first month or so, thus it had only been her and Bethany when they started work. She still remembered their first day; one foot through the door and she was hit by a tidal wave of wolf-whistles and ‘well done Meeran’s. It was like they’d never seen a set of tits before. Still, a few broken noses, a few threats down the line and she’d managed to gain their respect for her and her sister. She’d had to work for it, though.

The weeks spent holed up in Gamlen’s hovel on the bottom bunk of the itchy bed hadn’t done Carver much good; he’d groused like an old spinster when Mother finally let him out. Not to mention the blow his fragile masculinity had taken when it hit him that his sisters had been out working the grind while he’d been at home with his mother and dear old uncle. No shortage of ammunition to tease him with there.

“Right,” Hawke said, getting to her feet and dusting off her arse. “I’m heading.”

“You’re off?” Gustav asked, sounding disappointed. “You don’t want to, uh … y’know?”

Hawke scoffed. “That was once. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“At least let me kiss it goodbye.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but stuck her rear out for Gustav to plant a kiss on it. “That’s the last time.”

“You know it,” he grinned, and she strutted off, sheathing her dagger back into the strap on her thigh.

* * *

 

“May I trouble you for a moment of your time, messere?” wheedled a merchant. “I have here a pinch of our Lady Andraste’s ashes, verified by—”

“Out of my way,” said Hawke impatiently, pushing him aside. The bazaar was, as always, crowded; pickpockets weaved their way through the herds of shoppers, looking for a wealthier or otherwise foolish patron who had their coin purse within reach. Beggars crouched in corners, pleading with anyone who passed by, while merchants safe behind their tables called out, advertising their wares. Hawke pinched her nose as she passed a butcher, complete with naked pig carcasses crawling with flies hanging from hooks on the stand. A little girl pushed past her giggling, and then another who followed in pursuit. They abruptly stopped their game as they came to the Trinkets Emporium, eyes wide at the sight of the shiny objects laid out on the table; as grubby little hands reached out to fondle the various bits of junk a switch slapped down on the table, followed by a harsh ‘ _no touching!_ ’ from the seller. The air stank; all of Lowtown was smelly, but the bazaar had the added aroma of sweat and food that had been lying in the sun. As she came to the end of the market, Hawke gave a shudder of relief.

“Alright, darlin’?” cooed a whore on the corner.

“Where you going, luv?” crowed another. Hawke looked them over briefly, considering before deciding against it and continuing on her way.

As she came to the slums, she couldn’t help but smile. It was a shitshow, sure. A clusterfuck of drunks, prostitutes, and beggars, but it was hers.

“Well, if it ain’t my favourite neighbour!” came a yell from a portly, red-faced fellow across the hex, eyes glued to Hawke’s chest. “Oh, and look! Hawke’s there too!” This was followed by a roar of lecherous laughter.

“Shut it, you fat lush,” scolded an equally drunk redheaded man. “You want to make her mad?”

“Earl,” Hawke nodded curtly, strolling over to them. “Jansen. Day drinking again?”

“You know it,” said Jansen, the redhead. “Only way to live, the way those mines are going.”

“We lost another one,” Earl slurred, wobbling dangerously. “Hugh. I liked that lad, and he… he…” The man hiccupped, gesturing wildly with his hands. Hawke had no idea what it meant. “He… you know?”

“I know,” she said unsympathetically.

“To Hugh!” called Jansen, lifting his mug.

“Hugh!” echoed Earl.

“Hugh,” Hawke offered. She took Jansen’s ale and took a large swig of it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before handing it back to him. “I’m off. Try not to die.”

“I always knew you cared,” winked Earl, lifting his mug.

The slums were lively in the afternoon; most of the miners would have finished work by now, and were gathering out in the streets, playing cards on upturned crates or barrels and drinking moonshine. Most of the taverns round Lowtown had a ‘no Fereldans’ policy, so the refugees took their leisure time to the streets, lazing on steps to apartment buildings or leaning against the whitewashed walls in groups of two or three.

Gamlen’s hovel was situated in the corner of a hex, at the bottom of an apartment block; which was fortunate, because the slums were a maze and it was hard enough to find home without worrying about how many sets of stairs to climb. Inside, it was a dump; it was a tiny two-room bottom-floor flat made for one person, and it showed. Bethany, Carver and Hawke slept in a three-storey bunk bed, if it could be called a bed; wooden plank strewn with hay and sawdust would be a more appropriate description. They had one thin blanket between the three of them, which they alternated nightly; luckily, in the summer it wasn’t too cold. Leandra had a cot, which they’d dragged into the same room as the bunker so she didn’t have to sleep in the same room as Gamlen. Considering the Hawkes’ room had originally been intended as a wash, there wasn’t much space, what with the bunker, Leandra’s cot, the fireplace, the privy and the wash bucket. Gamlen slept in the main room, also on a cot, along with the mabari, whom Hawke had named Hawke (much to the confusion of everyone she met).

To family, she was Marian. To anyone else, including herself, she was Hawke. That was how it had always been, and that was how it was going to stay.

“I’m home,” she announced, kicking the door open unnecessarily.

“Welcome home, dear,” said Leandra in a deflated sort of fashion.

“You don’t have to announce yourself every time you walk through my door,” grumbled Gamlen, who was leafing through what looked to be a bundle of bills. “There’s a letter for you on the desk. Something about dwarves.”

“I didn’t know you could read,” Hawke said lightly. Bethany’s giggle could be heard from the other room. Gamlen’s face went very sour.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.” Hawke walked over to the desk to look at her letter while Leandra began lecturing Gamlen on how to talk to her children.

_Hawke,_

_You’re leaving soon. Fair enough. Figured you’d be looking for work once your month is up. I heard some talk about an expedition, some kind of treasure hunt to the Deep Roads. It’s run by some dwarf, name of Bartrand Tethras. Don’t know if they’re hiring Fereldans, but you like a challenge, and I heard it’ll pay off. Plus, no templars in the Deep Roads, so good work and protection for Beth. If you’re interested, I heard he’ll be in the dwarven quarter of Hightown, looking for hirelings._

_Figured I’d pass on what I heard to you. Call it a favour from a friend. You’ve done good this past year. If it don’t work out, they won’t hire, whatever, there’s always a place for you in the Red Iron. You stay on, might even bump you up to command._

_Meeran_

Cheeky old bastard had a heart after all.

“Oi, Beth. C’mere for a sec.”

Bethany came over, her dark hair still damp from the wash. Hawke looked her over once before glancing to the back of the hovel. “Where’s Carv?”

“He went drinking with the company,” Bethany said wistfully. “Lad’s night out, or something.”

“Prig.” Hawke brandished the letter. “Take a look. Some kind of expedition. Meeran recommended looking into it once our month is up.”

Bethany scoffed. “Since when has Meeran ever done anything nice?” She took the letter regardless, reading it quickly. “Hightown? Bloody hell, sister, if he hires we’ll be rolling in it!” Her doe-like eyes glittered with excitement. “And we’ll be out of the templars’ sight for a while. Not that I’m keen on facing more darkspawn, but it’s got to be worth it, right?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Hawke muttered, folding up the letter and stuffing it into a drawer. “We don’t know if he’ll hire Fereldans.”

“Worth a try though, yeah?”

“Yeah, worth a try,” Hawke agreed. “Do us a favour and conjure some warm water? I’m proper manky after today.”

“Course,” Bethany nodded, and scampered over to the wash to fill the bucket. Hawke followed, ducking so as not to hit her head on the door frame. Classic Lowtown. Low ceilings, low company, low mood. At least she had warm water to wash with. Having a mage for a sister wasn’t all bad.


	2. AVELINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is just reference after reference after reference. sorry, y'all.   
> next chapter is bait and switch, so three guesses who's pov it's gonna be from, and hopefully we can get stuck into the actual story rather than preface. as always, bookmarks/comments are appreciated and motivate me to write more!

“So, new girl. You coming out tonight?”

Aveline laughed. “Hardly new anymore, Evighan. I’ve been here for months.”

“Oh, you and your last names. Call me Brennan, please.” Brennan nudged her, a playful grin on her face. “Come on, you know you want to. The captain’s coming tonight. Big news, yeah? I reckon he’s going to promote someone. What d’you think?”

“No room for decorum, huh?” Aveline asked wryly, but she was smiling. “If Ewald’s taking us out for drinks, it’s bound to be something big. I’ll be there, Brennan.”

Brennan grinned, patted her shoulder approvingly, and started to head off – she abruptly stopped half-way through the door, however, and turned back to Aveline.

“I almost forgot!” she said brightly. “Captain Ewald asked me to tell you to go see him in his office, when you have a moment. Might be related, eh?” She grinned and winked before continuing through the door, letting it swing shut behind her. A nice girl, that one. It hadn’t been easy making friends at first, what with the stigma against Fereldans and their associated crime rate, but a few rounds of drinks and she’d made her peace with most of them.

A quick meeting with the Captain, and then she could read through her reports in peace – too many of which involved a woman by description of black hair, milky skin and a red streak across her nose. Hawke, Hawke, _Hawke._ It was like the woman went out of her way to find trouble, rather than the other way around. Not to say Aveline had been intercepting her letters, but, well, she’d been intercepting her letters, and frankly the moral repercussions of being friends with Hawke were starting to take their toll. She was, in one word, a criminal. Luckily that nonsense about Bartrand was at the very least legal, albeit dangerous; Hawke and the law didn’t usually mix. Still, she’d heard things about the Coterie and the Tethras brothers; they’d been suspect peoples on more than one occasion, and were only really walking free due to having an extortionate amount of money and friends, plus being a pair of slimy little liars. She’d have to warn Hawke, when she next saw her.

A guard, friends with a paid killer. That’d be one to tell the children.

At that thought, Wesley crossed her mind. His sallow, mottled skin cracking as he held her hand for the last time, if only to guide her sword into his chest. _They will not have you._ She took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply. Now wasn’t the time. Compose yourself, Vallen.

Two minutes to empty her mind of thoughts, deep breaths, count to sixty twice, and she left for Ewald’s office.

***

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Ah, yes. Vallen. Sit down.” He gestured to the seat opposite his desk, and his face was that of an emotionally troubled father about to put down his daughter’s dog. Aveline panicked for a minute, before swallowing and taking a seat. Was he letting her go? Had having a Fereldan in the guard become too much of an issue? She beat down her anxiety. Compose yourself, Vallen.

“I’m putting you up for lieutenant.”

Well, that wasn’t she had been expecting.

“I - Captain?”

“No,” said Ewald seriously. “You lieutenant.”

Aveline tried very hard not to laugh, and failed. Ewald cracked a grin, though he still seemed serious, and Aveline flushed a deep red to match her hair, adjusting her headband. “I don’t know what to say, ser. I’m… honoured.”

“Don’t be. You’re one of the best recruits I’ve had in a damn long time. Bloody miracle that weasel Gamlen got you into the city, because frankly you’ve held this place up. You’ve put that lot to shame, a refugee doing a better job protecting the city than its own citizens. The paperwork’s gone through, and I know you’ll do well as lieutenant under your new captain.”

Aveline’s bashful smile faded at that, confused. “New captain, ser?”

“I’m stepping down.”

Aveline tried and failed to mask her surprise as Ewald rubbed his temple, looking exhausted. “That’s… what the drinks tonight are about. I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone sooner, but...”

“Captain, I - can I ask why?”

Ewald sighed, leaning on the desk. “The job, it’s just … it’s demanding. Frill, pomp and ceremony while good men are getting killed. I’ve had this position for three years, and never in all my time have I been as stressed as I have this past year. Murders, theft, organised crime, that Emeric hounding me about a serial killer. Kirkwall’s getting rough. With the influx of Fereldans - no offence to you, guardswoman - and the Blight and all, it’s just … too much. When I signed on, things weren’t so bad, but now…it’s not for me. Trust me when I say that things will be better this way – new man coming in, Jeven. He’s qualified, he’s trained, he wants this job and he’s prepared to deal with it. He’ll be tough, but something tells me you like it that way.” Ewald gave a wry smile. “I haven’t been a good captain these past few months. This is the best I can do to put it right.”

Aveline nodded solemnly, trying to hide her disappointment. It was true Ewald had been a bit flimsy as captain, but he was a good man. The guard would be lesser without him.

“I… understand, Captain.”

“Not Captain any more,” he said wistfully, giving a depressed little laugh. Aveline smiled sympathetically.

“Yes, ser.” And then after a beat – “Would you prefer I keep this quiet until tonight?”

“Ah, say what you like,” he said, batting his hand. “Sing a song about it. I don’t care. Now go on, shoo. I’ll see you tonight, _lieutenant._ Hanged Man.”

“Ser. Yes, ser.” Aveline tried her best to grin, and gave him a respectful salute as she stood. Ewald weakly saluted back, and watched her leave.  

A new captain. That was something to think about.

***

“ … Oh!  
Paraded through Kirkwall as hero and winner!  
Nuggins, Nuggins! Stubborn and vicious!  
Tripped up a viscount, now he's for dinner!  
Nuggins, Nuggins! Of course he's delicious!”

The song was concluded with an uproar of drunken laughter. Donnic started to cough wildly after a large swig of ale, and Aveline slapped him on the back a few times.

“Donnic can’t hold his liquor!” roared Jalen, which was followed by another round of laddish cackling.

“Another round, men?” Ewald asked mirthfully, to an enthusiastic affirmative from the group.

“They’re on me,” Aveline announced, getting to her feet. She called over the tavern girl, ordering a new round of the Hanged Man’s finest, and the guards cheered in approval. Her purse strings would be tighter than an elven woman’s you-know-what after tonight, she mused, but it was worth it for the camaraderie and friendly pats on the back as a fellow got up to head to the privy.

The guard had booked nearly all of the Hanged Man’s tables for that night, but a few civilian regulars remained, generally sticking to the corners and end tables of the tavern. Their group had got a few nasty looks through the course of the night; the Hanged Man wasn’t known for its upstanding, law-abiding customers, but no one had dared tell them to piss off while they were in such a large group. It might be a night off, but they were still guards, and they still had shackles dangling from their belts.

Corff, the bartender, was all too happy to take the guard’s coin, and so the drinks kept coming.

“Where’s Brennan?” Aveline asked absently, not addressing anyone in particular, and Harley, another guard, jerked her thumb towards the bar.

“Still there?” Aveline remarked incredulously, craning her neck to get a better look. Brennan was leaning against the bar, a drink in each hand, gazing at Corff with stars in her eyes.

“The symphony I see in thee …” she was slurring, gesturing wildly with her drinks and spilling ale everywhere. “It whispers _songs_ to me!”

“She’s been at it for hours,” Harley cackled, and Aveline grinned, shaking her head.

“She’s not the only one,” Donnic remarked, sliding in to the conversation, and jerked his chin at a noble-looking man standing at the bar who was engaging a dark-skinned woman. “‘Dusky goddess’? Yikes.”

Aveline clucked her tongue, laughing. Just then Ewald stood up, knocking on the table for the group’s attention.

“Men!” he bellowed over the din of drunken laughter and clatter of mugs. A few guards turned from their conversations to look at him, then a few more.

“Oh, here we go,” Aveline sighed sadly.

“What?” Donnic and Harley asked jointly, cocking their heads and giving her a pointed look. Aveline just grimaced, nodding at Ewald as if to tell them to listen.

“I know some of you are probably wondering why I took you all out tonight,” Ewald was saying, looking rather crestfallen, “I’ve got an announcement to make, and I’m not all that happy to be making it. Men, I’m resigning.”

At once a profound kind of silence fell over the group, making way for everyone to overhear a talkative drunk at another table. _Do you ever feel like you’re part of a story someone’s telling?_ More silence. _What? Why’s everyone gone quiet?_

“I know it’s an odd time,” Ewald said sadly, “and I know some of us have been together for years. We’ve had some good times, men. Hendyr, yeah? Remember that time we were both recruits, caught that Coterie bastard even though that old coot Captain Lonnie told us we weren’t good for it?”

“Aye, Captain,” Donnic nodded, sadly but affirmatively, raising his drink. Ewald nodded approvingly, and rounded on another guard.

“Casimi! I still remember that first job I gave you, thought it was a test, thought you couldn’t do it, and you proved me wrong time and again.” He turned from Harley to the rest of the guard, raising his drink. “This talented bitch caught not only the raper, but his whole damn ring. Brought them all to the cells in irons, only her second week in arms!”

“And I’d do it again, ser!” shouted Harley, to more congratulating yells.

“And don’t even get me started on this one!” Ewald continued, raising his voice and pointing with his mug at Aveline. “Modest old girl probably hasn’t spread the news yet, but I’ll have none of that! I promoted this woman to lieutenant today, and Maker rest the souls of the poor fools who are going to be under her, because Vallen is tough as iron!” He spread his arms wide, caught up in the moment. “She hasn’t failed one damn job since she signed up, she’s bought all you sorry lot’s drinks for the past year, and she’s fresh off the fucking boat! This dog lord has put your sorry arses to shame! Vallen, you mongrel, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Aveline stood, slamming her drink down on the table. “May I speak freely, ser?” she asked, grinning, and without waiting for a response – “Fuck you!”

“Hear that, men?” Ewald roared with laughter, and walked over to slap Aveline on the back approvingly. “This woman’s got more balls than all of you put together! Take your post, lieutenant!”

“A toast!” yelled Donnic.

Aveline grinned, nodded, and raised her mug.

“To Ewald, our rotten sot of a captain, and to the guard!”

The guards cheered and downed their drinks, and Harley stood up.

“And to Brennan over there, who’s been reciting love poetry to the bartend for four fucking hours!”

The group threw back their heads in laughter once more, and Aveline felt a warm, uncontrollable smile spreading across her face from ear to ear. This was family, she thought. This was the way it should be. It was bittersweet, she supposed, as she watched Ewald fall back into conversation with a senior officer who’d known him the longest, and it would be sad to watch him go, but this was where she belonged. Her face was hot and slightly numb from the alcohol, and she knew she was probably red as a tomato; damn redhead genes. Suddenly, she felt her eyes water, and had to blink furiously to bat down any emotions back into their recesses. Not now. Compose yourself, Vallen.

She could only hope the next captain loved his men as much as Ewald had.

Another hour or two later, the guards began to clear out, after everyone had bid their goodbyes and thank-you’s to Ewald – he wasn’t leaving tonight. There was still another month or so before he officially left his position, but they all knew this was really the last curtain call. As they began to file out in groups of two or three, and Corff and Norah began to close up for the night, a guardsman Aveline didn’t recognise shoved past her angrily, and spat at her feet as he went.

“Pet,” he hissed, and a fellow walking with him snickered. Aveline just shook her head. It wasn’t going to ruin her night. There would always be people like that, she knew, and there was no point detracting from her own happiness to entertain the thought. Regardless, a yell from behind her put the thought out her mind.

“Who’s this chump?”

A tan human man with short cropped blond hair was sitting in the corner, brandishing his drink threateningly at anyone who passed him by.

“Logan… will pay for his penis crimes,” he slurred, a little bit of vomit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Poor guy,” Donnic said sadly.

“Swooping is bad,” the man confirmed.

***

Monday morning. Fifth of Kingsway. New captain, new start. All Soul’s Day had come and gone, and a chill had swept over Kirkwall, the last of summer days clearing out like dismissed soldiers. Aveline had met with Hawke, caught up; according to Hawke, her year was over, and she was looking for work. They’d gone to the Chantry together for the annum, lit candles; Aveline for Wesley, Hawke for her father and Lothering. It had been some time since Aveline had seen her fellow refugee; the reunion hadn’t been an overly happy one, given All Soul’s Day was no song-and-dance event. Still, however frustrating the woman was, it had been good to see her. Hawke had certainly seemed glad; uncharacteristic of such a tough woman. Friends were friends, Aveline supposed, and Hawke wasn’t the kind of person to fade into the background.

Still, time was passing, and life went on. She had her job to see to, and apparently, her job had to see to her. The door of the captain’s office slammed open, and the new man stepped out.

“Starting from today, I’m your new captain. The name’s Jeven. Now, I’ll have no funny business, no riff-raff, and no show-offs. We clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” chorused the assembly of guards. Jeven spat on the floor, and a newer recruit next to Aveline flinched.

“You’re a sorry bunch of bastards. Ewald really let this place go to shit.” Jeven shook his head, pacing up and down the head of the group. “Fereldans and elves being promoted, criminals running amok. Listen up, guardsmen. There’s two things I hate; disrespect, and disobedience. Avoid those two things like the plague, and we’ll get along just fine. Don’t, and kiss goodbye to your job.” He didn’t ask for clarity, just continued his pacing. Aveline decided she didn’t like him.

“I’m not one for long introductions. You all know what needs to be done. Do it. To your posts, the lot of you.” He waved his hand as if to shoo them away, and headed back into his office, slamming the door behind him. No one moved for a second; as if on cue, Jeven reappeared a second later, slamming the door open once more. “One more announcement. Everything Ewald arranged to go through before his departure that wasn’t made official has been nullified. Promotions, rota changes, etcetera. Forget all that. You answer to me now, not Ewald. No complaints. That’s all.” The door slammed closed once more, and that was that. Well, she supposed she could kiss her promotion goodbye.

“Charming,” Aveline remarked, hoping to engage the trembling recruit next to her.

“Hah,” the recruit offered weakly, and scurried off. Well. Never mind, then.

She sighed. She’d been under worse commanders than this, and she could get through it, because she always did. That was how things were. She had friends in the barracks, she had friends in the city, and she still had a job. It was something. Not much, but something. Compose yourself, Vallen.


	3. FENRIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its the boy

“I need a name.” 

“I got one,” Anso said triumphantly, putting down his papers. “Red Iron. Friend of a friend, Athenril knows a guy, Meran or Mekel or something. She said he’s got someone on the case. I sent a runner earlier today; Stone willing, you’ll have your guys by tonight.”

Fenris nodded in understanding. Danarius had been getting more adventurous in his traps, and while hiring mercenaries had never worked out too well for him before, usually ending in him getting cheated, robbed, sold out, or all three, he needed the help. Hiring a retainer had been a wise move; while it cost that much more, by the sounds of it he’d get far better help from someone versed in these matters than hiring killers directly. More often than not, whoever he managed to hire to help him fight the slavers would be bribed and turn on him at the last minute, meaning he’d have more men to kill than if he hadn’t hired help in the first place. Better that whoever he hired didn’t know he was being hunted by men willing to pay for his head.

That was the problem with paid killers, he supposed: they were paid to kill. Didn’t matter who, as long as they got a coin purse at the end of it, and while Fenris had been stealing to survive for three years now, he was no professional pickpocket. He’d managed to scrape together three sovereigns, which he usually avoided spending if he could; no point in paying for a loaf of bread when it was sitting in a windowsill and he was starving. The money he stole was more for emergencies; bribing a captain to smuggle him onto a ship, for example.

As with most smugglers, Anso had a small hideaway in an alley on the docks. Fenris perched on a barrel, fingers idly resting on Lethendralis’ pommel, ready as always to run or fight at a moment’s notice. The sword, along with his clothes and waterskin, was the only thing that had stayed with him since he fled Seheron. It had served him well – slaves were not permitted to have possessions, and thus under Danarius he had simply been ‘borrowing’ it. Giving it a name had been the Fog Warriors’ influence; a fine sword for a fine warrior, they said, needs a fine name. Make it yours.

Years of being chased had not been wasted on Fenris; he did not sit idly. He had already scanned the hideout, mentally noting all possible escape routes – now his eyes darted to the door and windows from time to time, his long ears twitching at the slightest hint of outside noise. While being an elf had given him most of his problems, it had at least uniquely equipped him to deal with some of them – the enhanced hearing and eyesight had given him the upper hand on escape more times than he could count.

Just then a knock came on the door – Anso quite literally jumped, and Fenris stood up instinctively, hand on his sword tightening. After a moment, though, a rough-sounding voice came accompanying the knock.

“I know you’re in there, dwarf. I need some damn dust.” The knocking got louder. Fenris exhaled through his nose hard and sat back down, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Sweet mother of Partha, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Anso muttered as he fiddled with the locks to let the assailant in. “You can’t just yell like that, man. You want the guard to find me? Sweet mother of Partha,” he mumbled again. A human man with greasy dark hair and a receding hairline as well as a dusting of bristle on his chin hurried in, Anso shutting and locking the door behind him.

“The dust, dwarf, the dust,” the man muttered, scratching his arms frantically. “I’m hurtin’ here.”

“D-dust?” Anso wobbled slightly, eyes flickering around the room like a scared animal. “Oh-oh, but of course, the dust, yes …”

As Anso scurried about his stores, the man eyed Fenris warily. “Oi, Anso, who’s the elf?”

“No concern of yours,” Fenris said coldly.

“Alright, touchy, I’m Samson,” the man remarked, still scratching himself with dirt-encrusted fingernails. He then sniffed the air, frowning. “Wait a minute, what’s that … that’s lyrium, ain’t it? I’d know that smell anywhere.”

“We’re in a warehouse full of it,” Fenris remarked flatly.

“No, no, this is different …” Samson took a few steps closer, evidently trying to smell Fenris. “What’s that then?” He pointed at Fenris’ markings. “That’s it, innit?”

“Come any closer and you won’t live to find out,” Fenris threatened, dragging his sword into view and resting his chin on the pommel. Samson took one look at the sword and raised his hands defensively, taking a step back.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, calm down,” he muttered, shaking his head as he sat on a nearby crate. “Only lookin’, wasn’t I… oi, Anso! Hurry it up, man!”

“Ancestors, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Anso mumbled, hurrying back into the main room and setting down a sack as Samson emptied his pockets of coins, eyeing Anso’s burden hungrily.

Fenris resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the pair of lyrium addicts proper. At parties or social gatherings, Danarius had had slaves prepare lines of the stuff, a purified kind of lyrium powder safe for mages to ingest. He and his fellows then snorted it, usually off Fenris’ bare back or stomach. While he doubted the stuff Anso dealt was anywhere near as refined as what Danarius used to snort, the memory still lingered as he watched Samson noisily go through several lines. He shuddered at the thought, and averted his eyes.

As he ran a hand through his hair, he caught a whiff of it and shuddered once more. Once this trap was dealt with, Fenris mused, he would have to go and find someplace to bathe. His last wash had been several weeks ago, and while elven sweat didn’t have quite the same acrid stench as human sweat did, it was by no means pleasant. Not that being a fugitive attacked at every corner gave much opportunity for personal hygiene, but he’d prefer to keep clean just the same.

He wasn’t the only one. As Samson paid Anso and left, Fenris caught a whiff of human body odour, and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. It could generally be agreed that most everyone in Lowtown, at any given time, needed a wash. He wasn’t even going to start on Darktown.

“I will be taking my leave, as well,” he said, as Anso scraped up the dregs of dust left from Samson’s lines with a flat edge and tipped them back into the sack.

“You’re going?” Anso asked, looking startled as usual. “That’s all you needed?”

 “That’s all.” He turned to leave, and then after a beat - “I … thank you, Anso.”

“You take care of yourself out there.”

He gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and took the warehouse’s back door out, leading in to a side alley, so as not to be spotted by any late dockworkers. The dwarf was leaving Kirkwall after this job, and Fenris didn’t doubt that he would never see the man again. For what it was worth, he left with a healthy feeling that at last he’d found someone trustworthy. That, at least, was a small triumph.

He, unlike Anso, had no immediate plans to move on. Once he was rid of this trap, he should be clear for at least a few weeks. He could get a room at a tavern, have a bath, eat some real food with the money he’d loot from the slavers rather than rats or stolen apples. If the bait Danarius was losing was what he thought it was, he might even get a lead on who he was. A name, a relative, a previous owner; anything was better than nothing, as long as he could find someone to read it for him. Maybe he’d find Samson and ask him; a lyrium addict must have been a templar at some point, and templars could read. He almost felt… excited. It had been some time since he’d been able to rest.

Not yet, man. You’re not out of the woods yet.

There was, of course, always the chance Danarius had accompanied the hunters to the city, which Fenris wouldn’t put past him; especially not now that he was in a city where Danarius had holdings and property. Fenris was in no way eager to meet death, so it couldn’t be said coming to Kirkwall was a deliberate attempt to lure his former master out into the open, but he was growing weary of running. Aching legs, rumbling stomach, parched throat; squatting in bushes or behind crates to piss and sleeping one hour or so per night, if he managed to sleep at all. It was no life. At least under slavery he’d had a roof over his head –

No. He shook that thought like dust from a rug. There were no merits to slavery, none at all, and he’d be damned if he caught himself thinking like that again.

It didn’t matter. He could muse on what his plans were after this trap was done with; for now, he had a place to be.

He took a cautious look up and down the alley before heading out of the hex, head bent down to obscure his face, strapping his sword to his back.

***

As a show of dominance, Danarius had a little routine he would exercise every few weeks or so. He would, typically while other slaves or servants were watching, inflict some kind of abuse on Fenris, a beating, lashes, a yank on his collar to choke him. Shortly after, he would hand Fenris a sharp edge and order him to shave him; it was the display of Fenris having the power to kill Danarius so easily, yet never going through with it, which gave the man such delight.

It wasn’t that the thought of killing Danarius hadn’t crossed Fenris’ mind; though his loyalty was unwavering, and he found it difficult to entertain the idea of harming his master, when the knife is pressed into your hand and your hand pressed against your abuser’s throat, it’s hard not to consider such an action. While it was a rush of power for Danarius, and a way of exercising dominance over his slave, the display was more for anyone who might be watching than for he or Fenris. It was a way of proving that Fenris was a loyal attack dog who could not be turned against his master; as well as a way of toying with the hopes of more rebellious slaves, who would overlook the display and think to themselves, _surely he won’t hold with such degradation. Surely he won’t be able to stop himself slitting that man’s throat –_ only for the sigh of both relief and disappointment as Fenris completed the shave without leaving so much as a graze on his master’s chin.

His musings were interrupted by a low voice below him, a hunter giving orders to his men. It was time.

He had found a spot to perch on a windowsill above the alienage gates, accessible via an adjacent block of flats, and now he crouched, watching the slavers file into the clearing, evidently assuming he was inside the hovel. This group the mercenaries he’d hired could deal with, he decided; this lot were simply bounty hunters who didn’t know what they were in for. Danarius would advertise a bounty on Fenris’s head, were he brought back alive, or a lesser sum if brought back dead; presumably, Danarius would plan on killing them after they returned his property to him. Ordinary men of no consequence, hoping for a jackpot; they likely were unaware of Fenris’ unique abilities. The commander and his small group, however, who were likely heading this way now; Fenris would dispatch them himself. As a rule of thumb, no one expects an attack from above.

One hunter was positioned directly by the gates, and Fenris prepared himself for the jump. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then braced himself and activated the markings.

The pain wasn’t truly recognisable to him as pain anymore; the markings always ached, stung if they came into contact with water, wine or dust, but after so many years of it the soreness seemed to fade from view. Activating the markings was a little more noticeable; they flared up, giving way to a sort of burning sensation, similar to the feeling of pouring boiling water on yourself. Had he been pale, his skin would no doubt redden and rash from prolonged use of the markings; thankfully, his pigmentation aided in masking the effects of the lyrium on his body. He attuned himself with the Fade, and stepped out of the physical world; to the average human eye he would appear as little more than a ghost, a shimmer in the air. Were he fighting a group of elves, it would be slightly harder to disguise his presence to their enhanced, almost cat-like vision; thankfully, elves were rarely found among groups of slavers.

He faded from view, and leapt off the windowsill, preparing for a roll forward to distribute his weight in the landing. Hitting the ground, he got to his feet, and before the nearest guard had a chance to react to the sound he had twisted the man’s neck and broken it. To the other slavers gathered around the alley in waiting, it would appear the man had dropped dead of his own accord. Their hackles raised, looking around wildly for the culprit; a few of the smarter ones’ gazes aimed upwards, searching for a hidden crossbowman or sniper. Fenris was wasting no time, however; a series of materialised hands later, most of the soldiers were lying prone and heartless on the floor. By the sounds of it, the mercenaries had left the hovel; he could hear shouts and screams from the alienage. Hopefully the slavers, not the people he’d hired, but that could wait for now. There were a couple of slavers left, clearly terrified, trying to identify who’d just decimated their squad. Fenris took pity on them and materialised, markings still glowing in the dark alley. One tried to scream, but Fenris’ hand was already in her throat, severing her voicebox. He tore her throat out and let her fall to the ground to bleed out. The other had taken a few steps back, sword raised; Fenris drew his own sword, still strapped to his back, and lunged; two parries and the other man’s sword had been knocked away, skidding across the stone floor. He raised his hands in surrender but Fenris had already reached in and crushed his heart; it would take him a few seconds to die, but that was that. He wiped his bloody hands on his tunic, returning his sword to the sheath on his back. All in a day’s work.

“Lieutenant!” came a cry from around the corner; the commander, then. “I want everyone in the clearing, now!”

Fenris smirked. Not a chance, given he’d just killed ‘everyone’ without breaking a sweat. The man whose heart Fenris had just crushed was still standing; shaking and wobbling like a drunk, he stumbled towards the stairs before beginning to fall.

“Captain –” he gurgled, before going down. Fenris shook his head and headed to the alienage stairs, kicking the body out of the way.

“Your men are dead,” Fenris announced, feeling rather proud of himself, “and your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.” He walked past the slaver captain, paying him no mind; instead hoping to get a look at his aid. The captain was having none of that, however, and grabbed Fenris’ arm. Bad move. Almost instinctively the markings flickered up, and Fenris turned.

“You’re going nowhere, slave-” he uttered, and then his heart was grabbed and pushed through his back, dropped on the floor behind him. What a poor choice of last words.

“I am not a slave,” Fenris said firmly, almost bored, as he watched the man’s eyes roll into his head. He dropped the corpse, and turned to the mercenaries.

Fenris took one look at the woman he’d hired and almost doubled over in shock. She was the spitting image of Hadriana. Shoulder length ash-black hair framing her face, milky white skin dotted with freckles here and there, bloodless lips and cornflower lavender veins shadowing her piercing blue eyes. Eyes like shards of ice. He inhaled sharply and composed himself; despite the resemblance, this was not Hadriana. A coincidence, and nothing more.

“I apologise,” he began, stepping over the corpse of the hunter commander. He’d had run-ins with this one before; absently he gazed down, pushing the man’s head from side to side with his bare foot. He was dead. Good. Fenris turned his attention back to his aid.

“While I was aware a trap had been laid, I had no idea the hunters would be so… numerous,” he remarked, as he hefted a slaver’s corpse over the edge of the hex into the murky water below. Much like how the Gallows prison had no bars on its higher windows to prevent mages falling to their deaths, the alienage, which was right on the edge of Lowtown, had no real protection to stop people falling into the canal. As with the rest of Lowtown, there was a smattering of iron spikes along the edge of the wall to prevent people sitting down and dangling their legs off the edge; however, the spikes were only around a foot tall, so if someone tripped near the edge, they could easily either impale themselves or failing that, fall into the canal and drown. Kirkwall was fairly transparent in its architecture about which groups it wanted gone. “My name is Fenris. These men were Tevinter bounty hunters, looking to recover a magister’s lost property – namely, myself. Crude as their methods were, I could not face so many alone.”

“You tricked us,” said the woman who looked like Hadriana, her voice harsh and confident. She had a thick Fereldan accent, and a slight crease between her brows that evidently indicated she frowned a lot. She distinctively pronounced ‘us’ as ‘uz’. Definitely lower class Fereldan, despite her harsh features that indicated purer bloodlines. She was chewing on something, probably a bit of bark or elfroot, jaw working furiously.

“If I hadn’t, would you have come?” Fenris quipped, which was met by a chortle from the dwarf beside her.

“He’s got a point, Hawke.”

A dwarf with no beard. That was new, though by the looks of it the stout man had compensated by growing a small replica of the Seheron jungles on his chest. He pocketed the quip for later and turned his attention to the corpse of the hunter commander, who was sporting a nice new stain on his crotch. Maker, the smell. Wasn’t death _charming_? A quick search through the man’s inner pockets to find, nose braced against the assault, a key and documents that could only be orders, judging by the seal. He didn’t need to be able to read to know what that meant.

“It’s as I thought,” he remarked sternly, getting back to his feet and stepping away from the leaking corpse. “My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but –”

 “Nah,” the woman, Hawke, drawled, eyes cold. “When do I get paid?”

Fenris, immune to the woman’s aura, sighed.

“Your job is not yet done. You will have your gold once I have taken care of Danarius – he has a mansion up in Hightown. If we hurry, we may catch him.”

“Take care of him?” she remarked, chewing. “Sounds like you want to kill him, mate.”

“That’s what he _meant_ , you tit,” remarked a tall, muscular boy who resembled Hawke. A brother, presumably.

“No one asked you, though, Carv.”

Fenris scowled, gesturing to the marks on his neck and face. “These markings are lyrium. They were forced under my skin in a ritual against my will, and the agony erased every memory I had. The man who inflicted them on me kept me leashed and collared like a pet, and has no qualms about stripping the flesh from my bones if it means he gets his _investment_ back. To say I want to kill him is an understatement.”

“Reel it in,” Hawke remarked, hefting two corpses into the canal before making her way to the alienage stairs. “Didn’t ask for your life story.”

“I thought you might be interested in knowing who you’re being paid to kill, but clearly I needn’t have bothered.”

The dwarf chuckled, nudging him as he struggled to dispose of the last body. “If you thought Killer here had a conscience, elf, you were mistaken.” He gave a wide smile, patting Fenris on the back. The unsolicited contact made him jump, and the dwarf quickly withdrew his hand. “Name’s Varric Tethras. Come on. Let’s go kill your guy.”

“As long as I’m getting paid,” Hawke muttered from up front.  

“This is actually really good behaviour for her,” Varric remarked as they speedwalked through the slums, then the bazaar. “Normally at least two guys will have shit themselves and another guy ends up with minor and/or major injuries before she’s done with ‘em.”

“We just killed several men,” Fenris pointed out.

“No, no, I mean out of the _employers_.”

Fenris decided he liked the dwarf. His voice was pleasant, smooth, and the idle chatter he came up with filled the silence on the walk to Hightown. The man Fenris assumed was Hawke’s brother didn’t attempt to make conversation, and Fenris was fine with that. Hawke posed him a few questions, mostly relating to his markings, whether or not they were valuable, and what they could do. Otherwise, she was as silent as her brother, dark hair blowing in the warm night breeze.

***

Gone.

Gone, just like every other lead he had. No Danarius, nothing in the chest to lead to who he was, and now, thanks to a Hadriana lookalike, no coin, either. Fasta vass.

He said as much aloud, and was answered with silence. A portrait of Danarius hung on the wall opposite him, smirking as always. The artist had failed to capture the papery look of the magister’s skin, his sallow veins protruding from him like they were trying to escape. Here, he looked healthy, almost normal.

Any sort of scream he would have let out muted, he tore the painting down, snapping the frame and tearing the canvas slightly before throwing it to the floor. Danarius’s crooked smile still beamed up at him among the debris, and the huge, cold house was silent except for the noise of the collision. He stood in the quiet for a moment, watching the dust settle, and spat on the painting. He’d get drunk at some point and add some more graffiti to it. Vomit, perhaps.

Danarius had had him painted a few times. Not on his own, of course, but in household portraits, the grand paintings hanging between the twin staircases, he would always be present. Markings displayed, rendered in oil paint, Danarius’s hand in his hair like he was a dog. A lovely preserve of the desecration of his dignity for all to see. One day, he mused, when things changed, he would find those paintings, and he would burn them.

For now, he had to make do. He kicked the broken portrait one more time before heading off in search of the wine cellar.

***

“Hey, elf! You in here? It’s hard to tell, what with the, y’know, corpses, and the two-inch-thick layer of dust covering everything, and…”

Varric’s call trailed off, and he began to mutter, the dwarf’s ramblings bouncing off the walls and echoing down through the holes in the floor into the cellar where Fenris had made a little nest for himself.

“Down here,” he called, stifling a hiccup. As Varric stumbled into the room, tripping over broken planks and various other nonsense, Fenris raised the bottle as if to salute him.

“That’s it?” Varric chuckled. “Half a bottle of ancient Tevinter wine, a few hours out of my sight, and you’re drunk!”

“I hadn’t realised,” Fenris remarked dryly.

“Well, come on.” Varric took a seat in the dusty little corner next to Fenris, wiggling his bottom into the dirty floor. “Let’s have us a sip of that fancy Vint booze.”

***

“Let’s _piss on him!_ ”

“We’re not doing that.”

Varric chortled, nudging Fenris and wobbling dangerously. “Come on. This son of a bitch kept you on a _leash_ … and you _don’t_ wanna piss on him?”

“Well, I suppose every real pet has to urinate on their owner at least once.”

“O-ho. That’s dark, elf. Real dark.”

“Then I stand corrected.”

Varric nigh stuck out his tongue, letting out a devilish little laugh that can only be described as ‘eh heh heh heh heh’, before beginning to unlace his trousers. They stood side by side for a few moments, in solemn silence disturbed only by the trickle of Varric’s piss onto Danarius’s face, before Fenris too unlaced his leggings and squatted over the painting.

“Huh. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s the voice, I assume?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely the voice.”

There were a few more moments of piss and silence before deciding they had aptly desecrated the painting enough for one night and put away their respective junk.

“I guess you squat corrected, then.”

“It would appear so.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hes trans.


End file.
